I hear what you’re saying. I do. I honestly understand. But here’s the thing. You need to listen to me. Just listen. And don’t say anything back. Okay? Are you listening? Good. The first thing is that I appreciate you trying to reach out, but you need to respect my personal space. And spare me the guise of thanking me for making the effort. It just doesn’t ring true. I am not interested in a phony relationship without attempting to solve our real problems. It is my belief that you and I can’t solve our issues alone. It isn’t a matter of perception; it’s just straight-forward reasoning. It’s too painful to interact with you in a deep way. You cause me nothing but pain.You said it yourself. You don’t trust me and therefore cannot open up. And so, by your own admission, your suggestion is doomed to failure, right? And if you don’t like what I have to say, don’t ever call or email me again! Don’t worry, I won’t contact you first.

She opened the book and considered the page. She had forgotten where she was, what paragraph, what had happened. She let her hand drift down the worn paper, dragging the bookmark in a long slow slide. She bent the bookmark forward and looked down the glossy edge, an old ticket, from the McCartney concert at Yankees Stadium. They had sat at the side of the stage, seeing McCartney’s profile as he moved back and forth. It was amazing how young he acted and all of those great songs. And Crystal had almost looked happy, relaxed in the evening light, the arc of the thousands of people going up gently away into the sky. She didn’t drink that night. Nothing. That was the year she had died.She turned the ticket over, slid it back into the book, and held her finger, the black nail polish poking out, the end of it. She hung on to that and stared at her shoes and then across the train at her dark reflection in the window, the tunnel moving past, and saw the man staring back, his expression almost angry, chin burrowed in his scarf. Sex. It was always that. The train slowed. It was time to get off.